The Geneva Conventions dictate that chaplains are non-combatants and may not take part in active hostilities. This means that a military chaplain, who serves as clergy in uniform, cannot bear arms and use them when the need dictates, whereas everyone serving with him or her is able to do so. This sets up a sometimes challenging dichotomy for many chaplains, including myself when I served in the U.S. Navy, in that we're serving a population yet are unable to fully experience one of the more challenging aspects of life in the military—that one might be called upon to take a life in the course of his or her duty.
Sometimes this leads to challenging conversations, such as one that one of my chaplain school instructors, Chaplain Moreno, related to some of us. He told us of a time when a Marine asked him “Chaps (since everything in the military is shortened when convenient), you're not carrying a weapon and you can't fight. Should I feel bad if I have to kill someone?” This being chaplain school and my chaplain class having an unusually large number of people who had served before, we were expecting a deeply insightful and inspirational answer—the kind of thing you would expect to be able to say to an 18-year-old Marine on his first patrol in a hot zone that would give him the courage and confidence to know that, whatever happens, he is doing the right thing! Chaplain Moreno's answer was, “Yes! Of course you should feel bad about it! You're taking a human life!”
Some people in the group were rocked back on their heel by that answer. We're talking about Marines, the people at the sharpest end of the stick, and we should tell them that they should feel bad about killing? Of course we should, and we do. Even when it is what has to be done, death is terribly final and one of the few things in this world that is completely out of our power to undo or fix. On one hand, it seems easy for a chaplain to say this, because we can't fight, we can't kill. We're a very long way from Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, who is depicted on the Bayeux tapestry wielding a club in the midst of the Battle of Hastings. It's easy to look at that as an example of a dark time in history, when religious leaders were sometimes at the forefront of violence, and—though, in the modern era, we have somehow moved past that—doing so would be disingenuous, to say the least.
Why this past week? In two very different stories from Kansas and Florida, we see religion and violence tied together, if in mostly non-traditional ways. In Kansas, we saw a bill pass the state House before being defeated in the state Senate—a bill that would have effectively legalized discrimination and segregation against LGBTQ individuals and communities in the name of “religious freedoms with respect to marriage.” Yet religious freedoms are neither preserved nor protected by depriving people of their basic rights in any capacity, nor is it even remotely appropriate to so brutally attempt to impose religious laws on a civil, secular society. This was an attempt to violently impose a core set of religious beliefs on others, ignoring their human dignity even as it sought to deprive them of their rights as citizens. “Chaps, should I feel bad about trying to create a legal means to discriminate against LGBTQ individuals?” “Yes, of course you should feel bad about it. You’re trying to force people to become second class citizens in what should be a free society and use the law to oppress them bitterly!”
The second story is from a CNN interview with George Zimmerman, who was acquitted of second degree murder and manslaughter charges for shooting Trayvon Martin. In the interview, Zimmerman says that God is the only judge that matters. While I certainly appreciate and, to a certain extent, relate to that sentiment, it’s difficult to accept it for two reasons. First, not even a year ago, he was standing before a very mortal judge and jury awaiting a verdict. Second, I recognize that—while ultimate judgment is indeed God’s province alone—when we live in this world, we are subject to, and must live by, the laws of the places in which we live. “Chaps, should I feel bad that I killed someone even if I was acquitted in a court of law?” “Yes, of course you should. You took a life, and that can’t ever be made right again.”
What both these stories have in common is the idea that principles of faith must somehow prevail over and/or become the law of the land. Principles of faith are important, and people should live by the courage of their convictions, but we don’t live in a religiously homogenous environment. There is a statement in Deuteronomy 30:12 which reads “lo ba’shamayim hi”—it is not in heaven. This statement means that, even if one is following religious law, that law has been given to us to live by in this world. Religious principles aren’t and shouldn’t be an overwhelming burden but are intended to be close to our hearts and part of our lives. For those who wish to follow religious principles, they should by all means do so, but not at the expense of others. Claiming that you must oppress or harm others isn’t acting out of faith but bigotry. Resigning yourself to immortal judgment and trying to turn your back on mortal acts isn’t faith, but cowardice.
“It is not in heaven,” but here on earth where we all live—together.
Jeremy Yoskowitz is the campus rabbi and assistant director for Jewish life. His column runs every other Thursday. Send Rabbi Jeremy a message on Twitter @TheDukeRav.
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